Other Rose
by End of story goodbye the end
Summary: The second creepy Rose/Scorpius thing I wrote at 2:00 in the morning. Oneshot possibly longer... "So the woman's name was Rose. Well, not his Rose. Someone else's Rose. He would tell his Rose about this Rose. Perhaps his Rose could give this Rose tips on how to be a better Rose, because this Rose was clearly not doing a good job at being a Rose. At least, not at being his Rose."


Her hair was not supposed to be the color of blood. Sure, it was red, but no one really had naturally red hair. Especially not her.

Her hair was the color of sweet potatoes, of leaves on a bright fall day. The color of her many, many cousins own hair, and of the hair of the majority of the gigantic family that she had roped him into. The color of the fire that burned in her veins, that Weasley stubbornness that never seemed to skip a generation. The color of his daughters hair, and the color that had become his favorite at age eleven.

But her hair was the color of blood.

And he couldn't figure out why.

He heard the voices from very far away.

"COME ON DAD, UNCLE HARRY! I FOUND THEM!"

Of course Hugo had found them. His wife's brother hadn't ever been his favorite person, but the kid was alright, albeit a bit naive.

But Hugo had the same color hair as she did. And hers was the color of blood. And that couldn't be right, because Hugo was there, right in front of him, trying to tell him something. And his hair was the color of the sweet potatoes and the leaves, not blood, not like hers.

From very far away from him he felt Hugo's hands on his shoulders, his voice quiet.

"Scorpius, what are you doing? Help her! She needs you?"

How could the woman laying at his feet need him? She wasn't Rose, that much was clear. Rose had hair the color of Hugo's. This woman's was the color of blood.

Rose had lovely brown eyes full of life. This woman's eyes were shut tight and sunken into her skull.

Rose had lovely pale skin. This woman's was papery and white.

No, this woman was not Rose.

"Scorpius, help me get Rose out of here, now!"

So the woman's name was Rose.

Well, not his Rose.

Someone else's Rose.

He would tell his Rose about this Rose. Perhaps his Rose could give this Rose tips on how to be a better Rose, because this Rose was clearly not doing a good job at being a Rose. At least, not at being his Rose.

"Scorpius, your wife needs you! Are you going to just stand there?"

Al's voice brought him out of it. Al was always right. Al was always trustworthy.

If Al said Rose needed help, then Rose needed help.

He jumped as everything came into focus. The dirty walls, the cold stone floor. Hugo, staring at him in panic. Al, kneeling next to the Other Rose, checking her pulse.

"She's alive." Al exhaled the words, relief seeping into every syllable.

For some reason Scorpius felt relieved as well. He wasn't sure why, he didn't even know this Other Rose.

But at the same time, he shouldered past Hugo and picked up the strange Rose. She trembled against his chest, thin, frail, and cold.

Pity stabbed at his chest. His heart ached for this poor, weak, Other Rose.

Her eyes were shut tight.

"Rosie, sis, it's me, Hugo. Remember me?"

Scorpius had no idea what Hugo was playing at. This was not Rose. This was Other Rose. There was a big difference.

But something told him that His Rose was in there, under the Other Rose. Other Rose had smothered her, pushing His Rose under.

And he wanted Other Rose to give His Rose back.

Other Rose, stealing His Rose's flawless skin and brilliantly sharp eyes, replacing them with papery skin and sunken black pits. Taking His Rose's beautiful sweet potato, leaves, cousins and relatives, daughter, and favorite colored hair back, replacing it with blood red hair.

And he wanted Other Rose to give His Rose back.

The relatives panicked, as expected, but no one but him seemed to notice Other Rose. It took several hours before he got Other Rose alone do he could find out where His Rose went.

Other Rose sat trembling on his and His Rose's bed, arms wrapped around her legs. Thin, emaciated, un-rose-like legs, surrounded by thin, emaciated, un-rose-like arms.

"-Tortured under the Cruciatus Curse almost none stop for several days, Mr. Malfoy. I do expect her to recover, but I don't see her ever being the same again."

She would be. If Other Rose knew what was good for her.

He nodded at the Healer. She touched his arm sympathetically, then turned and left.

This left Scorpius with Other Rose.

The door creaked open. He looked over to see his six year old daughter Octavia stepping into the room. The little girl's face was dead serious.

"Daddy, where did Mummy go?" she asked, her little face worried and confused.

Scorpius gestured at Other Rose.

"She's in there, somewhere. Buried under someone else."

Octavia frowned. "I want Someone to leave us alone and give back Mummy."

Scorpius set his jaw.

"We will sweetheart. We will make Someone give us Mummy back."

Scorpius and Octavia found Other Rose hard to deal with. She was easily frightened, clingy but reclusive, hard but so afraid, and very, very, malnourished.

He and Octavia dealt with Other Rose gently and calmly, and slowly Other Rose gave back bits and pieces of His Rose. First was her skin. Lush and soft as before.

Octavia read to Other Rose every evening, telling her to let her fear go.

But Other Rose clung to her fear like a lifeline, refusing to let go.

Other men would have given up and sent her to a psyche ward. But Other Rose had not grown on Scorpius. He pitied her, but she was still His Rose's jailer.

And he meant to break His Rose out of the filthy jail that was her mind.

One morning, while Octavia was reading to Rose, Scorpius, in the kitchen, heard a crash. He entered the room to see Octavia consoling her mother, who was shaking like the leaves her hair resembled.

"Mocha scared her." Octavia explained, her voice steady, pointing at the cat cowering in a corner of the room next to the shattered remains of the lamp.

Scorpius exhaled in utter despair.

He wanted Other Rose to give His Rose back, dammit.


End file.
